


modus tollens

by tanyart



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some friendships are meant to be built up, over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	modus tollens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [claquesous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claquesous/gifts).



Ronan finds that things _happen_ to him when the world goes all quiet. It’s almost always bad, like drifting off to sleep after staying awake for too long, or walking across the Barns with the morning mist still rising under his feet, or the second of calm before a yellow light turns green. It’s the kind of silence that tells him—monsters to follow, the smell of death to come, or Kavinsky.

And, for some reason, it’s happening now when Gansey introduces Noah for the first time.

Noah stands at the entrance of Monmouth Manufacturing, so plain and unassuming Ronan doesn’t bother looking twice, even when the late afternoon sunlight shines through him as if he was made of thin paper.  The world goes still and quiet, and Ronan nearly misses the danger of it.  He tries to chase it down, follow what his instincts have told him over the years, but the feeling is gone by the time Noah speaks.

“Hey,” says Noah, and his voice is soft and blurry to Ronan’s ears, easily forgettable.  “Gansey says I can have the room next to yours.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” replies Ronan, disinterested and turning away. “Just don’t come into _my_ room.”

Gansey gives him a pointed look, the equivalent of a tug at the neck if Ronan had been on a dog on leash.  Ronan doesn’t oblige Gansey with faked politeness, but he isn’t arguing about the unplanned third roommate.  He figures that should have been enough.

Noah makes a noncommittal noise, unbothered by Ronan’s bluntness.  It seems like it would take a lot for Noah to be bothered.  It makes Ronan want to try for it, just for a moment, only to see what it would take to get under Noah’s skin.

It’s only for a moment though. The door behind Noah swings shut with a click that breaks the silence. 

There’s something final in the sound, like one last reminder that Noah is here to stay—and Ronan can’t shake off the thought he should… do something, a little more of _anything_. The thought escapes him again and it’s frustrating.

So maybe, Ronan _does_ look again, real closely this time.  A glance over his shoulder imprints an image of Noah, standing in the too-bright sunlight with motes of dust lingering over his head.  For some reason, it reminds Ronan of the benign parts of church, of faded stained glass and old, worn out icons in storage.  Noah, he realizes, looks exactly the type of person you’d find living in an abandoned factory.

“Or the type you’d forget in one,” Noah muses a little later that night.

“What the fuck did I say about coming in my room?” Ronan snaps, startled into sitting up on his bed.  He glares at his door, surprised to find it closed with no sign of Noah.  He waits, and then bangs his fist against the wall.

“Sorry,” Noah says, muffled from the other side, in his own room.  He doesn’t sound very sorry, but he stays silent after that.

 Ronan feels a second of apprehension before slipping back to sleep, too easy and too quick.

* * *

Ronan has learned to distrust silence over the years.  He can’t help being on guard when everything appears calm and peaceful—bad things happen when it gets too quiet, so he’s learned when to make some damn _noise_.

There is a soundless pause in the darkness of his room before the light of his cell phone blinks on.  Ronan stares up at the ceiling, his phone vibrating an insistent pattern on his chest.  It rattles his ribs, jumpstarts his beating heart like an overeager engine.  He picks up, a sharp grin on his face before he can read the text.  He already knows who it’s from.

_u feel like getting ur ass kicked tonight?_

Ronan doesn’t text Kavinsky back.  No point in wasting time.  Instead, he shoves the phone into his back pocket, grabs his keys, and heads down the stairs.

Gansey is passed out on his shitty mattress, winning battle against insomnia for the night.  Ronan is a little thankful and a little disappointed at the same time, though he can’t exactly place why.  Curiosity, probably, because Gansey always had interesting things to say about Kavinsky.  Most of it bad, but true.  It was always fun hearing Gansey talk shit.

He makes it as far as sticking his keys into the ignition of his BMW when Noah shows up in the backseat, staring dolefully from the rearview mirror.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ronan spits, rolling down his window to stick his head out.  “What the hell?”

“No, only me,” says Noah, face a stark red hue from the brake lights.  He leans forward.  “Where are you going?”

“None of your business, actually,” Ronan replies, making a point to rev the engine.  The noise would probably wake Gansey, but Gansey should be used to it now.

“You racing Kavinsky again?” Noah asks, sounding way more accusing than he should have been. 

Ronan doesn’t remember telling Noah about Kavinsky, or racing. Then again, Kavinsky is the kind of notorious that’s hard to miss, and living with Ronan for the last couple of weeks would have clued anyone in to his pastimes.

“You gonna stop me?” Ronan asks.  He arches an eyebrow, amused.  Noah doesn’t look made to pick an argument, much less stop him.

“I’m not Gansey,” Noah says in the same tone someone would say, _‘I’m not your mother’_ , but something in his expression flickers.

Ronan blinks, convinced for a moment it was a trick of the darkness, that the shadowed half of Noah’s face had twisted into a wry expression.  And, because the silence that follows after it is just the right kind of dangerous, Ronan barks out a laugh.  Noah, for all his sullen aloofness and tendency to shut himself in, is _interested_.  Interested in Ronan, maybe, but his gaze stays a little too long on the BMW’s dashboard and console, much more than shallow curiosity. It’s a look of passing judgment; Noah frowns for a second, expression blurring once more before that, too, is gone.

“Yeah.  No offense to Gansey, but sometimes he can be a real killjoy,” Ronan says, weirdly drawn to this unknown side of Noah.    

Noah smiles, and it’s the clearest Ronan’s ever seen him. The smile is _sharp_.  “Sometimes.”

“You got a car?” Ronan asks, but even as he finishes the question, Noah takes a step back.

“Used to,” he says, and just like that he shutters off.  The smile is gone, replaced with something duller, less real.  The mouth moves but there’s no light in the eyes.  Another thought slips from Ronan’s mind, insubstantial as smoke.

They seem to dismiss each other at the same time.  Ronan shifts gears, tires crunching up dust from the dirt, and Noah climbs out of the car, walking back to Monmouth.

By the time Ronan is next to Kavinsky, counting down until the light turns green, he’s forgotten all about it.

* * *

When Noah isn’t hanging out with Gansey, he’s back at home in his room.  Or Ronan assumes Noah is in his room.  He rarely comes out, and Ronan only catches the barest details of evidence that Noah is ever there—an opened window, scattered papers, a glimpse of a worn Aglionby uniform disappearing behind a door as it closes.

A wayward breeze on the back of Ronan’s neck. 

Soft sounds through the wall that separates their rooms.

Ronan starts to think there might be something creepy about Noah, but the idea falls through his fingers like catching water.

He ditches tennis practice that day, comes back to the abandoned factory to _not_ practice tennis, and finds Noah sitting on the floor.

Ronan almost pauses in mid-step, some emotion like surprise trying to halt him, but stubbornness pulls his steps through.  He knows Gansey is at rowing practice, but for some reason it’s strange to see Noah without Gansey nearby.  It’s stupid, really—they all live together after all.  He drops his duffle bag at the door and picks his way through the messy room.

Gansey’s latest side project is starting to take shape.  The miniature Henrietta is far from being completed, but it’s got the main roads and part of Aglionby Academy for now.  Noah is staring at the model, looking distinctively blank.  Then again, Ronan isn’t sure he has seen Noah any other way.

Noah puts his hand on a tiny street, traces his finger down an unknown path, and by intention or accident, knocks over the beginnings of Aglionby Academy’s Language and Literature building with his forearm.

“Take out the science hall while you’re at it,” Ronan says to Noah’s slouched back.

Noah’s shoulders go up.  He turns to face Ronan, mouth open as if to say something. 

The accompanying silence is brief, but Ronan tenses, and then—

“There’s nothing in the science hall,” Noah says suddenly.  “It’s not important.”

“Damn right, fuck school,” Ronan replies, automatic.

Noah stares at Ronan, jaw unhinging a little.  He shakes his head and snorts, soft laughter at some private joke Ronan’s not in on.  He picks up the fallen Language and Literature building and puts it back in place. 

“Gansey’s not with you?” Noah asks, peering around Ronan’s shoulder.  Like he can't quite believe Gansey is not here either.

Ronan shrugs.  “No.  At rowing.”

This time Noah does seem a little surprised, body absolutely still.  His gaze lands hard on Ronan.  “Oh.”

The gaze is not so much unsettling as it is totally new for Ronan.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that Noah has not, as far as Ronan can remember, actually _looked_ at him, eye contact and everything.  The stare hits like morning frost at the Barns. It reminds Ronan of death, though not the one, significant death that’s been haunting his sleep.

A chill runs up his spine, some kind of new thrill that’s different from Gansey, different from Kavinsky.

“Hey, I’m heading out tonight,” Ronan says before he can think twice.  “You wanna come?”

For the second time in less than a minute, Noah looks surprised. 

“Can I?” he mutters, so low Ronan assumes he must have been talking to himself.  He stands up, hand coming to touch the side of his face.  Two fingers to his cheek, tapping three times in thought. Solid. Noah puts his hand down and announces, “I think I can.”

“Gansey’s not here to stop you,” Ronan adds, just out of instinct.  Noah seems to care about what Gansey thinks, in the way everyone eventually does, somehow. 

Noah makes a contemplative noise, doubtful for reasons Ronan cannot understand. 

“We’ll see,” he says, stepping out of the miniature Henrietta, and accidentally knocks over the Language and Literature building again.

* * *

Sometimes Ronan wonders if being around Noah was like being in a dream—the type of dream for people who weren’t Ronan.  Even Gansey, as strange and fascinating as he is, has nightmares like every other person Ronan has ever known.

And Ronan knows he does not dream like most people.  He’s known it for all his life.

Sometimes, when the insomnia lets him sleep, Gansey talks about his weird nightmares as if they were only half-remembered memories, nonsensical and vague and easily forgotten.  It’s a foreign concept to Ronan, and it’s baffling to think someone as brilliant as Gansey would fall prey to something so ridiculous.

“So, even  _your_  head can be full of shit,” Ronan would say, and Gansey would laugh.

“I suppose.  It’s usually all my thoughts during the day, jumbled up.  Doesn’t make any of sense at all,” Gansey says, and frowns a bit at Ronan.  He doesn’t ask about Ronan’s dreams, and changes the subject.

So Ronan wonders about Noah.  For him, being awake and dreaming is the same thing.  He always remembers his nightmares, right down to the grim, gory detail.  Monsters that leave scars are hard to forget after all. 

But when Ronan tries to remember Noah, it’s all out of focus.  Noah appears like a blurry image in his mind, indistinct and fleeting. 

When he tries to recall a specific conversation, he can’t remember a thing. 

And this is only when he can remember Noah exists at all.

* * *

The world is loud with the mixed sounds of Ronan’s stereo and Kavinsky’s purring Mitsubishi thrumming through the ground.  Ronan kills his engine but lets his music play on.  The noise is good for him—a steady rhythm, barely-there lyrics—and he breathes with the bass in his ears.  From the corner of his eye he sees Kavinsky get out of his Mitsubishi with the laidback confidence of a person who always gets what he wants. 

Because of that, Ronan stays in his BMW until he hears the _tap-tap-tap_ of Kavinsky’s fingers on his windows.  Ronan lets out a slow breath and kills his music too.

The silence is deafening.  Ronan readies himself like he’s going to fall asleep and find nothing but nightmares and monsters.  In a way, he is. 

On the passenger’s side, Noah lets his head loll against the headrest.  He stares at Kavinsky through the tinted window.  Ronan idly notices that he hasn’t been wearing his seatbelt for the whole drive.

“He wants you,” Noah observes.  “Bad.”

“Yeah?”

The thought is interesting.  Ronan turns it over in his head, not sure if he likes the idea. He doesn’t dislike it though.  Kavinsky’s an ugly thing, all rotten and spoiled on the inside, but at least Kavinsky has a way to recognize the same thing in Ronan, which is something Gansey can’t seem to do.

“Bad, as in, he wants me _bad_ , or you think it’s a bad thing?” Ronan asks, just because he’s curious. 

“Both,” Noah replies, understanding with perfect clarity that his answer wouldn’t have mattered.  He slouches in his seat, a sulky shadowed figure.

“Aw, babe, you jealous?” Ronan snickers.

“As if,” Noah scoffs and adds, a little wistful, “You’re both the same, you know.  But you’re the better person, I think.”

Ronan bristles, both at the comparison and backhanded compliment.  But before he can say anything, Kavinsky’s fist knocks against the window, more insistent. Noah slouches further in his seat, closing his eyes as if to convey that he wants no part in this. 

“Kavinsky’s gonna punch the car if you keep him waiting any longer,” he sighs.  “You’d best punch him first, at least.”

Grinning, Ronan rolls down his window, letting the smell of Kavinsky’s cigarette smoke waft into the BMW. 

Behind his white sunglasses Kavinsky’s got dead, party-hazed eyes.  He slants the shades down his nose, looking at Ronan with a smirk.

“Thought you’d come out tonight,” Kavinsky says, leaning in, not quite close enough to touch.

Kavinsky doesn’t even acknowledge Noah’s existence, though if Ronan is honest with himself, he’s forgotten all about Noah too.  Kavinsky’s arm is resting against the top of the BMW, his sleeveless shirt riding up his waist, and Ronan’s eyes drift to the seams of his jeans, the skin of Kavinsky’s exposed hip. 

“What do you want?” Ronan asks, directing his glare to better places.  Namely, Kavinsky’s arm on his car.

Kavinsky laughs, moving his arm off of the BMW in a way that has less to do with politeness and more with playing the bearer of benevolent indulgence.  He sounds delighted, high on shit Ronan can’t even guess, and maybe Ronan _wants_ to guess. 

“You getting out or what?”  Kavinsky steps back, giving Ronan an exaggerated amount of room to open the door.  He throws out his arms, casting shadows from the headlights of his Mitsubishi, blue hydrogen light marking his outline.  His grin is electric and bright, and even if his eyes are bloodshot, they’re focused on Ronan and nothing else. 

Ronan’s heart pounds, breathing suddenly gone shallow.  There’s no music to keep him steady, no rhythm or bass to keep him on track, no engines rumbling.  Having all of Kavinsky's attention is liquid fire down Ronan's throat.

It’s _quiet, quiet, quiet._

Kavinsky smiles like a dangerous thing, and Ronan’s wants so bad do one better, because they both know he’s just as dangerous.   

“I thought,” Noah interrupts, breaking the silence, his voice loud in Ronan’s ears, “we were going _driving_ tonight.”  He talks as if _racing_ was a word too good to be used in the same context of Kavinsky.  It’s got the right hint of spite and malice that startles Ronan into an unexpected laugh.  Noah’s got a derisive streak in him, and Ronan would have never guessed it until now.

Kavinsky’s smile falters and Ronan almost shivers at Noah’s icy hand on his shoulder.  For some reason, it feels reassuring.  Steady.

“I thought we were here to drive,” Ronan repeats, louder for Kavinsky.

Kavinsky would never back down, and he doesn’t.  He shrugs off Ronan's sudden disinterest. 

“It’s going to be your loss,” he says, always willing to play.

Ronan rolls up his window and starts the BMW.  If Noah doesn’t say a word for the rest of the night, he doesn’t notice.

* * *

In the morning, Ronan comes home without the smell of Kavinsky’s smoke clinging to his shirt.  He doesn’t remember when, exactly, he’s lost Noah during the night.  He walks past Noah’s room, exhausted in the way that means no dreaming when he finally falls asleep. 

“Thanks,” he says to Noah’s closed door.

The door cracks open with Noah’s faint silhouette in the darkness.

“Thanks for taking me,” Noah mumbles.  He pauses then adds, words coming out in a rush, “And for listening.  Didn’t think you would.”

Ronan yawns.  He’s no good at this.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, going to his room.  In the back of his mind, he thinks he might not remember this after he sleeps.  “G’night.”

Noah laughs, quiet.  He seems to understand.

"See you when you wake up, Ronan."

 


End file.
